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Ali looked surprised. “Friends don’t shove friends.”
“Well, maybe we’re not friends,” Spencer answered.
“Guess not,” Ali said. She took a few steps away but turned back. Then she said something else. Spencer saw Ali’s mouth move, then felt her own mouth move, but she couldn’t hear their words. All she knew was that whatever Ali said made her angry. From somewhere far away was a sharp, splintering crack. Spencer’s eyes snapped open.
“Spencer,” Dr. Evans’s voice called. “Hey. Spencer.”
The first thing she saw was Dr. Evans’s plaque across the room. The only true knowledge is knowing you know nothing. Then, Dr. Evans’s face swam into view. She had an uncertain, worried look on her face. “Are you okay?” Dr. Evans asked.
Spencer blinked a few times. “I don’t know.” She sat up and ran the palm of her hand over her sweaty forehead. This felt like waking up from the anesthesia the time she’d had her appendix out. Everything seemed blurry and edgeless.
“Tell me what you see in the room,” Dr. Evans said.
“Describe everything.”
Spencer looked around. “The brown leather couch, the white fluffy rug, the…”
What had Ali said? Why couldn’t Spencer hear her? Had that really happened?
“A wire mesh trash can,” she stammered. “An Anjou pear candle…”
“Okay.” Dr. Evans put her hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Sit here. Breathe.”
Dr. Evans’s window was now open, and Spencer could smell the freshly tarred asphalt on the parking lot. Two morning doves cooed to each other. When she finally got up and told Dr. Evans she’d see her next week, she was feeling clearer. She skidded across the waiting room without acknowledging Melissa. She wanted out of here.
In the parking lot, Spencer slid into her car and sat in silence. She listed all the things she saw here, too. Her tweed bag. The farmer’s market placard across the street that read, FRESH OMATOES. The T had fallen to the ground. The blue Chevy truck parked crookedly in the farmer’s market lot. The cheerful red birdhouse hanging from a nearby oak. The sign on the office building door that said only service animals were permitted inside. Melissa’s profile in Dr. Evans’s office window.
The corners of her sister’s mouth were spread into a jagged smile, and she was talking animatedly with her hands. When Spencer looked back at the farmer’s market, she noticed the Chevy’s front tire was flat. There was something slinking behind the truck. A cat, maybe.
Spencer sat up straighter. It wasn’t a cat—it was a person. Staring at her.
The person’s eyes didn’t blink. And then, suddenly, whoever it was turned his or her head, crouched into the shadows, and disappeared.
19
IT’S BETTER THAN A SIGN SAYING, “KICK ME”
Thursday afternoon, Hanna followed her chemistry class across the commons to the flagpole. There had been a fire drill, and now her chem teacher, Mr. Percival, was counting to make sure none of the students had run off. It was another freakishly hot October day, and as the sun beat down on the top of Hanna’s head, she heard two sophomore girls whispering.
“Did you hear that she’s a klepto?” hissed Noelle Frazier, a tall girl with cascading blond ringlets.
“I know,” replied Anna Walton, a tiny brunette with enormous boobs. “She, like, organized this huge Tiffany heist. And then she went and wrecked Mr. Ackard’s car.”
Hanna stiffened. Normally, she wouldn’t have been bothered by a couple of lame sophomore girls, but she was feeling sort of vulnerable. She pretended to be really interested in a bunch of tiny pine trees the gardeners had just planted.
“I heard she’s at the police station like every day,” Noelle said.
“And you know she’s not invited to Mona’s anymore, right?” Anna whispered. “They had this huge fight because Hanna humiliated her with that skywriting thing.”
“Mona’s wanted to drop her for a couple months now,” Noelle said knowingly. “Hanna’s become this huge loser.”
That was too much. Hanna whirled around. “Where did you hear that?”
Anna and Noelle exchanged a smirk. Then they sauntered down the hill without answering.
Hanna shut her eyes and leaned against the metal flagpole, trying to ignore the fact that everyone in her chem class was now staring at her. It had been twenty-four hours since the disastrous skywriting debacle, and things had gone from bad to worse. Hanna had left at least ten apologetic messages on Mona’s cell last night…but Mona hadn’t called back. And today, she’d been hearing strange, unsavory things about herself…from everyone.
She thought of A’s note. And Mona? She’s not your friend, either. So watch your back.
Hanna scanned the crowd of kids on the commons. Next to the doors, two girls in cheerleading uniforms were pantomiming a cheer. Near the gum tree, a couple of boys were “blazer fighting”—whapping each other with their Rosewood Day blazers. Aria’s brother, Mike, walked by playing his PSP. Finally, she spied Mona’s white-blond hair. She was heading back into the main building via one of the side doors with a bored, haughty look on her face. Hanna straightened her blazer, clenched and unclenched her fists, and made a beeline for her best friend.
When she reached Mona, she tapped her on her bony shoulder. Mona looked over. “Oh. It’s you,” she said in a monotone, the way she normally greeted losers not cool enough to be in her presence.
